


keep it hushed

by herzen



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 19:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9673193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herzen/pseuds/herzen
Summary: Congratulations on being an adult, Choi Hansol.





	

**Author's Note:**

> so many liberties taken w this... way too early celebration of coming-of-age day (its in may)... bunk assignments... etc etc;;;

Minghao isn't exactly asleep yet, so he's quick to open his eyes at the sudden sound of something heavy hitting the door--like a head, he finds, as he sits up and squints at the flood of sudden light from the hallway to see Hansol crouched down by the door with his head under his arms. When Hansol closes the door the dark swallows him whole. "Ow," he whispers. "Ow, ow, ow, ow--" The voice is hushed against everybody else's rhythmic snores. Minghao's the only one awake. He knows because half the room sleeps with earphones, the remaining half as follows: Soonyoung sleeps like the dead, impossible to wake, and then there's Minghao and Hansol.

Hansol trips on something three more consecutive times during the ordeal that is the journey to Minghao and his shared bunk a good 5 feet away from the door. Minghao absolutely does not help him, even as Hansol gives up walking altogether and instead starts crawling over, groping at everything ("That's my foot, Hansol.") Maybe as some sort of karmic retribution when Hansol finally reaches the bed his hand lands on Minghao's face, thumb poking Minghao in the eye. ("THAT'S MY FACE, HANSOL.")

"Let up, lazyass," Minghao says, as Hansol not so much as lays down but actually drops his entire weight on Minghao's bed with the grace of a toddler tripping into their parent's arms. Arms here being the unprepared length of Minghao's torso, the toddler being Hansol's 60-plus kg body. "I can't breathe."

Hansol raises his body a few centimeters, probably intending to move. He seems to thinks better of it, suspended with half his weight crushing Minghao's arm. Then, like an afterthought, he drops himself back down.

"Oof," Minghao says.

"Hello, hyung." Hansol is slurring. Awfully giggly, too. Minghao rolls them both over so Hansol's back is against the wall, Minghao's to the open side of the bed. He can't see shit in the dark. It makes his other senses go overdrive, zoning in on every little movement Hansol makes. It gets pretty hard to ignore the lack of distance, after a while; Minghao squirms away from Hansol's body in the dark and still when Hansol exhales his breath fans over Minghao's face, warm with soju--that'show close they are. Either Hansol's pushed himself from the wall away enough that he's gone over half the bed to Minghao's side, or Minghao's bed is suddenly just really tiny.

Whenever Minghao pushes him away, Hansol just shuffles back to him again, a leg curled over Minghao's own. His cold toes poke atMinghao's exposed ankles. Minghao shivers despite himself. 

"How was drinking with the hyungs?" Minghao asks, when he's finally remembered how to speak, opting to ignore the way Hansol burrows his head in Minghao's hair. It's like he fucking wants to push Minghao off the bed. 

"'Twas good," Hansol hums. He stops pushing, finally. He readjusts his leg so it's thrown over Minghao's thigh, slipping his hand under the covers to rub at Minghao's side, and stay there. "Really nice. I feel nice."

"Aju nice," Minghao deadpans, and this sets Hansol off, laughing like it's the best joke he's heard in his entire life. It's a surprisingly quiet laugh, breathy and none less than genuine, because Hansol's still considerate drunk as he is sober; still, the entire bunk shakes, like it can't help but join along, and Minghao's left with nothing but the quick need to quash down the happiness that Hansol's laughing had elicited. Hansol laughs at everything--even at nothing, apparently, when he's drunk. It's really no mighty feat. There is absolutely no need for it to feel like it is anything more than it simply is: Hansol laughing at something dumb Minghao says, as usual.

And yet when Hansol says, "You're funny, hyung," in a voice that Minghao knows usually accompanied tears, the way you laugh so hard your voice cracks and wetness fills your eyes, Minghao feels like he's won the olympics, or something of equal grandness. It should feel as if Hansol's reading a script with how Minghao's memorised everything already. Except what do you call something that isn't so much a script as just a default response, like when you believe something hard enough the words just come naturally, rises up to spill out your lips with the speed and the ease not of a quick excuse or a panicked lie, but of the calm that accompanies a truth. Like yeah, maybe Minghao really is the funniest person in the world. The kind of truth you listen to in suspicious fascination at first, and then later realise the lie in everything otherwise.

The mattress dips as Hansol scoots closer, still. Minghao's going to actually fucking fall over at this rate. One minute he's humming, little by little forcing Minghao's impending fall, and then in the next breath he's whispering, "Kiss me?" Minghao nods immediately, without much thought, realising too late that it's too dark to see anything, but already there's a mouth on his cheek, and then a subsequent grin. Hansol's missed the destination by a mile--he laughs at this, of course--and then there are lips pressing against Minghao's own, a hand creeping up his neck to stay there, fingers curled loosely in the fine hair at his nape. It's electric, where he and Hansol touch, skin unlike a live wire, dangerously exposed. A current from the kiss alone, energising everything it passes through: Minghao's hand, pulling in Hansol by the collar of his shirt with a gentle albeit insistent tug; Minghao's quickened heart, seemingly going overdrive.

Even under layers of flesh and bone and clothes he feels the same quick jump, the same restless beating, not unlike his own.

It's Hansol who pulls away, first. "Congratulations on being an adult, Choi Hansol," he says, with a tiny giggle.

"Congratulations on being an adult, Choi Hansol," Minghao mimics, kind of out of breath, like he'd run a marathon. His heart hasn't slowed down, has probably grown in size with the way his chest feels full. He hasn't winded down yet, still running on adrenaline, so maybe it's that that drives him to pull Hansol back, hold him in place, and say, as quietly as he can manage, "Again?"

If Hansol nodded Minghao isn't sure, but it comes back, the warmth. He doesn't miss this time: the press of chapped lips, a ghost of a warm breath against his mouth prior to it. The influx of blood rushing out his brain, the sparks at the places Hansol and he touch. Hansol kisses like how he normally is, shy at first, but earnest, meaning to leave a mark, an impression. When he sighs out Minghao breathes him in, grinning into the kiss as Hansol lets out a laugh whenever their teeth clack against each other, angle awkward. They make it work, somehow--maneuvered themselves so Minghao's flat on his back and Hansol's over him, half his body draped over Minghao's own, chest flush against his.

He's sloppy in the cutest way. Inexperienced, almost timidly so. When Minghao slips in a tongue Hansol makes a sound--it goes straight to Minghao's gut, travels lower after. In the next chance he licks into Hansol's mouth, and Hansol kind of--moans, quietly, the surprised cut-off kind, like he didn't mean to, like he didn't plan on making any kind of noise at all, and Minghao realises, not without a pleased hum, that _Fuck_ : Hansol's into this as much as Minghao is. The thought is exhilirating. Dizzying. Makes Minghao feel like it's him who's got alcohol in his system, senses dulled and bar for jokes extremely low, and not the other way around. When Minghao slips a hand under Hansol's shirt, places a palm flat against Hansol's abnormally too warm skin, Hansol pushes himself up abruptly.

And then, away.

It's too cold, all of a sudden. The hand Minghao has on Hansol's skin is a futile attempt at tying in a buoy, weak against the current of the sea.

"Hyung," Hansol says. Minghao listens in and hears the same undisturbed quietness, amidst the panic ringing in his ears. "Myungho-hyung," Hansol repeats, this time more urgent, and it's hard to read, Hansol's intent. Impossible to decipher, especially in the dark.

Minghao lets his hand fall. Hansol still looms over him, he knows. He still can't see shit, can't locate the hem of the blanket so he can pull it up and hide under it and let it swallow him whole.

"Myungho-hyung," Hansol says, again, quieter, less sure, and here Minghao finally snaps, fucking embarrassed, " _What?_ "

"Not now, hyung," is what Hansol says, and the tone is familiar, the voice lilting. Like a friendly invitation, the same way he'd said, years back, I'm Hansol, you must be Myungho-hyung? The insinuation hits Minghao like a sucker punch to the gut. Did Hansol just say... not now?

The bunk still shakes as Hansol rearranges himself, even if he's considerably less clumsy in his movements. "Let me sleep here for tonight," Hansol continues, yawning, as if he weren't just sucking face with Minghao literally seconds ago. "I'd roll over and die if I climbed up and you wouldn't be able to kiss me anymore."

Not completely sober, then.

"Shut up, Hansol," Minghao says, muffling Hansol's laughs with a hand. His lips are still slightly wet, he finds. Not seeing anything in the dark has him feeling everything so fully, what the fuck--like the quick pulse on Hansol's wrist as Minghao's hand slides down to hold his hand, the pleased exhale he lets out when Minghao scoots closer and lets Hansol spoon him from behind, slotting together with little fuss like a well-made puzzle. The promise in the way Hansol kisses his hair, feathery-light. Not now, he'd said. The implied other apt times to do it, Minghao doesn't miss. Not now, not here.

"You mean, like. When you're sober and thinking straight?" Minghao teases, because maybe that was what he'd meant, even if the way Hansol clings onto him says otherwise. 

"Naw, hyung," Hansol mumbles. "It's just way too dark to see anything. Sucks."

Hansol mutters something Minghao doesn't catch. It's either _Later_ or some other word in whatever language Hansol's suddenly speaking in. Minghao would ask what it was, except his voice has trailed off, syllables lost in Minghao's hair. Hansol's hold tightens, briefly, and then loosens, like a reassurance. 

Later, then. 


End file.
